


Time to be Someone Else

by Cyane



Category: Gravity Falls, Rick and Morty
Genre: Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, Canon-Typical Language (Rick and Morty), Filbrick Pines' A+ Parenting, Light Angst, Rick Being an Asshole, rick is a tattoo artist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-19
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2019-01-19 21:58:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12419040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cyane/pseuds/Cyane
Summary: Three years after Ford flew into the portal, Stanley goes to a tattoo parlor to cover up the scar. Rick Sanchez is a tattoo artist avoiding his daughter and her newborn son.





	Time to be Someone Else

**Author's Note:**

  * For [englisharpen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/englisharpen/gifts).



> Goddamn I love Rick and Morty. And Gravity Falls. Obviously, as I promised, there will be more one-shots. Probably involving Stanley, Rick, and/or Morty. I'm a little nervous, this is my first Rick+Morty fandom fic. Concrit is great.
> 
> Warning: first off, R&M canon-typical swearing so yeezus they're'll be a lot  
> Secondly: there's going to be some timeline issues, but I'm going to say this takes place three years after Ford went into the portal, and also relatively recently after Rick leaves Beth for the first time.

In hindsight, it could've been a lot worse. Something on his face, maybe. At least the heat from the brand cauterized the wound as it seared the symbols into his flesh. (Stanley's thoughts had all possessed the same sardonic undertones for the last three years.)

First was the pain. Because, yes, let's face it-- having something literally burned directly into your shoulder blade hurts like a bitch. It had cauterized, but it still bled occasionally, if it got torn, stretched, picked, or prodded. More than the blood was the _pus_ , though. Stanley hated the crusty layer of it, but the worst was when the scab was torn off, and the puss wasn't dry, it oozed. 

_Ick- ugh. Don't think about it._

Second was the itching. Once the wound scabbed over, the hardest thing was to try not to itch it. Because A- that was painful, and B- it only meant the scar would be more gnarly. 

On one hand, Stanley began to want the scar to look as gruesome as possible. As pathetic as it was, it was something _Stanford_ had given him. A brand and a journal. After that, Stan had just taken the rest; the shack, the clothes, the _name_.

Then came the scar. On that day, Stan had groaned at the recurring itching sensation, before giving in completely and reaching back to scratch violently at the scabbing. Once the scabbing had been ripped away, however, it fell away like snakeskin. Underneath was a slightly raised, red-tinged, rather gruesome-looking design of scar tissue. 

Jimmy would've been jealous. It looked badass. Unfortunately, unsurprisingly, it was a bit hard to enjoy how 'cool' a brand was, especially when it was given to you unintentionally. By your brother.

Two months healing into a scar, and then two years and ten months of hiding it under a ratty old flannel Stan had lying under his car seat. 

On the third year of hiding away in Ford's shack, Stanley finally decided to do something with it. He'd worn a tank top to the Gravity Falls' diner the other week, and the waitress had continued asking invasive questions about the raised branding lines wrapping along the back of his shoulder. 

Even so, Stanley just wanted to change it. Wanted it _gone_. It was just a reminder of Ford. Of his own failures.

_Two options: surgery to get it removed... which is too damn expensive and you know it, dumbass. That leaves option two: get a tattoo over it._

Stan looked into the mirror, neck craning around to peer at the scar. 

In some ways, he loved it. It was a symbol that, no-- Ford _had_ done something wrong. Brothers didn't brand brothers, accident or not. And somehow, Stanley was doubting that Ford felt completely sorry about the ordeal. Yes, Stan had made his share of mistakes... and in some ways, Stan knew he deserved the brand, and a whole lot more.

_"Stanley! Oh my gosh-- I'm so sorry! Are you alr--"_

First time Ford had apologized in at least a decade, and it had been because he had permanently branded him. 

Stan got a sick sense of satisfaction from that. He _hoped_ Ford felt guilty about that. It was one of the few things Stanley saw that Ford had done wrong-- something that they both knew had been wrong-- and although Stan felt he needed penance, in some ways, it was also incredibly gratifying. 

"I don't want to get rid of it," Stan muttered to himself, stretching his back around even more to itch at the scar tissue. "But... something."

A week later, Stan noticed a small spot titled 'Schwifty Ink'. Looked like an oldstyle tattoo place, something Jimmy used to take him to whenever the guy wanted to ink up more of his skin. Jimmy had begged Stan to get something, but the farthest Stan had gone was a sentimental, yet small, six black lines just above his Achilles heel. Some sort of symbolic sense, there. _Sixer has always been my Achilles heel._

So, impulsively, Stan didn't think twice before pulling over, shoving his hands uncomfortably in the pockets of his jacket, and going in. 

There was a hopeful chime as the door swung open, and Stan scowled at the noise. Ever since Ford... ever since he _pushed_ Ford into another dimension-- _fuck_ , that sounded bad-- Stan had tried to keep a low profile. He had no idea if anyone had known his brother, although he doubted it, and therefore he had no idea how to act. 

Stanley Pines was dead. 

He shuffled in, dragging his boots along the mat a bit. There were a line of chairs against the far wall, several higher-quality dentist-looking chairs near the back, a desk with two roller chairs, and a front desk, where a man was leaning. 

He was lanky. Really tall, sticky-looking guy with four black studs in one ear and two in the other. The thing that got Stan's attention, however, was the shock of grey-blue hair that stood up on it's edge, and the thick matching eyebrows. _Weird color. Huh._

The guy was leaning lazily along the desk, fiddling with a pen. 

"Um," Stan said intelligently. 

The man finally looked up, like Stanley was a curse to his life just by existing.  
"Yeah? W-What do you want, pal? Fair waAAOOOUUUrning, if you ask- ask for an infinity sign, a dream catcher, a semi-colon, or your girlfriend's name, I m-might actually shoot you."

Stan nearly stepped back at the bluntness. He composed himself quickly, though, grinning at the guy. He appreciated a dark sense of humor. (It seemed to be the only humor he had those days.)  
"Yeah... no, none of that. Uh... I dunno, really, what I want." He felt stupid, saying it, and he realized how incredibly dense he sounded. Going to a tattoo parlor without having a clue what he wanted? Right. Stanley felt his face heat up, more in frustration than anything.

"Riiiight." The blue-haired guy said. "That's real fuckin' s-smart. Do you want something or not? I don't get paid- get paid to stand here and listen to your life story, man." There was a brief pause before the broke out into a smile. "Oh wait, I f-fucking _do_. Guess what? Doesn't mean I want to, you twat. So how about you come back when you've m-made your decision?"

"Geez," Stan muttered, but he couldn't find it in himself to drop the giant, stupid grin he was sporting. It had been a long time since anyone in the town had talked to him with anything other than concern. _Yeah, pity that guy with nothing to eat who lives in that old shack._

(They had a point.)

"I'm Stan," Stan finally said, trying to stall.

"Yeah. Didn't ask." The guy responded. "I'm Rick."

"Didn't ask," Stan countered, feeling his hands start to shake. God, he just wanted to get this over with. 

Rick looked up at him, eyes gleaming. "Huh," he said. "Right now I almost don't- almost don't hate you, Stan. So I'm g-gonna play nice. What do you want?"

Ah. And there was the hard part. Stan grimaced, gesturing vaguely behind him.  
"I was thinking... something on my back shoulder blade? Yeah. And... er... either something real small, or somethin' that covers the whole thing."

"Extremist," Rick added helpfully. Stanley just rubbed the back of his neck. 

"Yeah, I guess. Um... so, do you, like- you can put a tattoo on a scar, yeah?"

Rick frowned. "Dude. You want to put a tattoo on your shoulder blade... on toOOOOUUHHp of a scar? You've got s-serious fucking balls, then. That's going to hurt like a motherfucker, especially if you want something big. Here, let me see how bad it is."

There was only a moment of hesitation before Stan nodded and awkwardly shrugged half of his jacket off, tugging down his shirt and turning around. 

He couldn't see Rick's face, but he heard the sharp inhale and he stiffened. _That bad, then?_

"Hoooooly _shiiiiiit_."

"What? What is it?"

Rick rubbed a hand over his face. "Who did you say you were? Y-you have any idea w-what machine you got- you got that burned from?"

Stan's eyes narrowed immediately. He liked this guy, but the portal was a secret. End of story. Who could say if this 'Rick' guy was really a tattoo artist? He could be working for the government. Or crazy. That portal was Stan's one chance at getting his brother back.

"Sorry, wouldn't be able to say," He responded coolly. Rick's eyebrow raised in surprise. Stan got the uncomfortable feeling that Rick could see right through him.

"Fine, whatever, y-you piece of shit. I'm not here to learn your life story. W-what tattoo do you want?"

Stan paused, fidgeting. "...What do you think?"

Rick snorted. "I think you need to get a jooOOOUUHHHob, I think you need to buy a n-new shirt, I think you need to find a good red-light district and--"

" _\--About the tattoo?_ "

"Depends if y-you're trying to forget it or trying to immortalize it, man."

"I'm sorta trying to do both."

Rick rolled his eyes, throwing his hands up. "I'm not here to give you f-fucking design ideas!"

(Wasn't he?)

Stan grunted anyway. "Right- I know, fuck, I know. Sorry."

They stood in silence for a moment. Rick looked at his customer for a moment, searching him over, before deflating a bit. "Okay, you bitch, I get it. How about this; we don't do a giant one, because sorry, b-but I know you won't be able to afford it. And I'm guessing you're not looking to cover it up... just... I dunno, fucking... change it? So what if we go over it. Ba-da-bing, ba-da-fucking-bang, it's not a scar, it's a tattoo."

Stan blinked. Huh. Not a bad idea.

"Yeah, sure, sounds good. How much does that cost?"

"Well, you've already got the design right there and it's gonna hurt like hell. Here's-- here's a deal, you tell me the story and I'll cut you off for a hundred and twenty."

Christ. Rick said that like it was nothing. Like a hundred and twenty dollars was something that just appeared out of nowhere, like it was somehow a small amount to have. Stan hadn't had more than three hundred dollars since he was seventeen.

But now, now he had a house to live in. It wasn't his, but he didn't have to pay for a hotel room or gas. He wouldn't stay awake at night, shivering and alone in a car. (He'd be alone, shivering in a house that wasn't his, well awake throughout the night.)

"Uh... you want to hear the story?" Stan asked, incredulously, rifling through his bag to get the money. Rick folded his arms and his scowl deepened.

"Whoa- fuck- I don't give a crap about you, or anything. Don't get the wrong idea- the wrong idea, man. But I'm bored and I haven't had a customer in the last two days, s-so how about, instead of making it awkward, you piece of shit, you just tell me how the fuck you got that weird-ass burn."

The money was exchanged and Stan let the blue-haired-freak take him to the back.

"What color?"

"Blue?"

"Is t-that a question or an answer?"

"...Answer."

_What am I doing?_

Once they got situated in the chair, Stan lying on his back with Rick sitting on the side of the scar, and Rick had applied some sort of cream and gotten the needle ready, Stan waited for the inevitable. He didn't have to wait long.

"Ow- _fuck_!"

Rick actually let out a huff of laughter. "I told you it was going to be painful. Don't- don't be a pussy."

Although the exclamation had been out of more surprise than pain, Stan clenched his jaw and relaxed, trying to adjust. He'd been through far worse than this. Living on the streets as a kid? Being in jail, in three other countries? Doing things that got him into those prisons? Yeah, and being chased by thugs didn't help any, either. Stan had gotten his fair share of pain, and this was nothing.

It was just, that area. The sting was far too reminiscent of how he had actually gotten the mark in the first place.

Rick wiped the area and continued on. After a minute of silence, Rick finally paused. "So, you going to tell me the story to pass t-the time or n-not, Stan?"

"Fell on it," Stan mumbled vaguely, muffled by the chair.

"Oh, no, buuuuddy, I cut you a deal for this one. Gotta' give me mooOOUUUGHHore than that."

"Are you drunk?"

"G-generally. Tell the fucking story."

With a deep breath, Stan shrugged as best he could without bumping Rick or moving too much. "My brot... brother- er. My brother and I got into an argument." When Rick waited, obviously not talking until Stanley continued, the man exhaled and slumped down. What the hell.

"I hadn't talked to him in a while," Stan began gruffly. "We didn't leave it on the best of terms. Some years went-" (He grunted when the needle hit his shoulder blade.) "-went by, and eventually I came over for a visit. We disagreed, he pushed me, I got burned, he died. End of story."

Rick whistled lowly, although he didn't look surprised, his blank expression still holding strong. "You kill him?"

That made something in Stan's throat catch. "...Yeah." It came out thicker than he wanted it to. Damn right you did. If you had just talked it out, left his life like he wanted you to... instead, you pushed him, and _you threw him into another fucking dimension, and now the world--_

"Nah."

"-What?"

Rick scoffed. "Sorry, bitch. You don't seem like the t-type to kill your own b-brother."

He almost looked down at himself as if to say, ' _what are you talking about?'_ With scars littering his arms, and a giant brand across his shoulder, and a ragged looking haircut and a filthy, ratty jacket, Stan was pretty sure he looked exactly like a serial killer.

"Yeah?" Stan snarled, feeling a pit of guilt-driven anger start to bubble in his stomach. "Well, I did, so-- how's that?"

"What-whatever. Not saying you didn't. Just saying you might've had a good r-reason to, if he g-gave you this."

"Fo-- my brother didn't mean to push me onto that thing!"

Rick groaned like Stan was a piece of gum under his shoe. "Did you mean to kill him?"

_**No!** _

Stan was suddenly very glad that his head was half turned the other way, half into the headrest of the chair, and that he was hidden from Rick's view, because he felt his eyes begin to sting.

"...Does it matter? He's still gone. Regretting it won't change a damn thing." His voice wavered.

They stayed in silence for a while, while Stan gnawed on his lower lip and tried desperately to contain his own tears. Every once in a while he tensed, as the needle hit down on a sensitive spot every once in a while. Rick was literally tracing the scar, which didn't help the pain at all, and at one point, Stan heard Rick hiss sympathetically under his breath. That particular spot had caused Stan to jerk and make a noise in the back of his throat.

It had been three years, but the memories were all too recent.

_"I'm giving you a chance to do the first worthwhile thing in your life and you won't even-"_

"-What about you?"

"Hmgh?"

Stan shook his head, trying to get Ford's voice out.

"This place is in the middle of nowhere. Outside of the town, not outside of Gravity Falls... no wonder you don't get any clients, this place is so far away from everyone. What's the story there?"

Rick grunted, and Stan immediately knew he wasn't about to answer.

For the next fifteen minutes, they sat in another bought of silence. Stanley noticed that Rick had slowed down, though.

"...I left my daughter's family."

Rick's voice was a mixture of attempted-aloofness, and a whisper of absolute agony.

"Which, I d-don't give a shit about, obviously, because in the grand scheme of things, it really coOOOUUHHouldn't matter less." His voice grew quiet, but steely, and he turned back to the tattoo. "But... she just had this kid. Little devil, really. Probably as- as stupid as Jerry. Fuckin' _Jerry_."

"Why'd you leave?"

"Because I've g-got better things to do then sit around wasting away in their garage?! Jesus. Why'd you leave your- your brother? It's the same t-thing, man."

Stan understood. Honestly.

"No... my pa kicked me out. I'd give anything to have Sixer back with me right now." Rick seemed to notice, but willfully ignore the nickname. "But I get it. You're staying away because you think you deserve it, right? Don't lie to me, we can talk all we want about how pointless families are-- and I know families can be shit, believe me, I've had my share. But they're still yours."

"Ha," Rick breathed, straightening out his back. "You're an idiot, y-you know that?" His voice was back to the same scratchy, grumpy thing it had been before, but Stan knew he had clicked something.

Stan grinned again. "Yeah."

Twenty minutes later, Rick stood up and popped his knuckles, grabbing a mirror. "It's going to scab o-over again, you know? It'll be all red and- and blistery, so don't scratch it or it'll just be a fucking scar again. But how is it?"

Stan craned around to look into the mirror Rick was holding above his back.

The previously red-white welt-looking scar now looked like some sort of punk band symbol he'd gotten printed into his shoulder. Of course it was still tinged red around the edges, from the needle, and the tattoo was slightly bumpy and raised, from the previous scar, but it didn't look like he'd been branded any more.

"Nice. Thanks."

"Yeah, yeah, don't g-get all mopey on me."

They walked back to the front desk, where Stan, a little hesitantly, gave him a tip. He appreciated Rick, and their conversation, but it didn't mean he wanted to go another week without food. It would be winter soon, and Stan really wasn't looking forward to that, Shack or not.

Rick frowned at the tip, eyes gleaming. "You sure you can afford that?"

"Shut up and take it," Stan grunted.

The other man shrugged, although his mouth quirked up. "Allllright, if- if you insist. You got a place to go back to, be-besides that shitty car back there?" He gestured out the windows, where Stan's car was pulled over.

"That's my baby, don't make fun. But... yeah, I've got a place."

"Okay. Y-you're welcome, now get the fuck out of here."

Stan turned to leave, but his feet froze at the last second. With one hand on the door, he glanced back at Rick, who was leaning against the counter again. "Heya... take it from the guy who literally would give anything to have his family back... don't leave them forever. They'd probably give anything to have you back, too. And... you never know when they could go, so... yeah. Alright- okay- thanks, bye."

Fighting down a furious blush, Stanley quickly grabbed his bag and his jacket and hurried back to his car.

_I'm going to get you back, Sixer. If it's the last thing-- or the only worthwhile thing-- that I ever do._

Inside the shop, Rick watched the guy practically flee to his car. _Too much heart. Doesn't know what matters and what doesn't. It's going to get him in trouble, someday. From the looks of it, it already has._

He couldn't stop thinking about Stan's scar. That brand, Rick knew that mark. It was the symbol carved into the earlier model of the same ghetto-type portal machine he'd seen back in Nevada, in a dimension nearby C-137. His only question was how the flying fuck some homeless idiot named Stan had gotten the burn... it must've been his brother.

_Why would his brother be fiddling around with a portal machine?_

Huh.

Rick glanced down, into the drawer behind his desk. He knew, in the third-drawer-down, there was a picture of the newborn 'Morty Smith', that Beth had sent him. He knew that there was a phone number, and a letter from his daughter, begging him to come back and at least visit.

_Jerry can fuck himself. Maybe-_

Maybe it was time to go home.


End file.
